


Clint Cooks the Cranberry Sauce

by FlatlandDan



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Christmas Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-14
Updated: 2015-12-14
Packaged: 2018-05-04 18:33:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5344301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlatlandDan/pseuds/FlatlandDan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Maria Hill starts the Christmas Club, Phil Coulson joins it, Clint Barton worries over cranberries, Bucky Barnes cooks the turkey and everyone learns the meaning of Christmas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clint Cooks the Cranberry Sauce

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Bucky Cooks the Turkey](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2832872) by [FlatlandDan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlatlandDan/pseuds/FlatlandDan). 



> This story is intended as a companion to Bucky Cooks the Turkey, which I wrote last year. Both can be read independently, but obviously compliment each other. 
> 
> Happy Holidays!

There was, in the beginning, not much for them to do about the situation. The beginning was missions that happened regardless of the season, cold meals taken on hill tops and the knowledge that what they did made it possible for others to have a peaceful day on December 25th. Phil Coulson didn’t see the point of it all, he had enough stress in his life without worrying about the perfect gift. On December 1st he spent an hour buying gift certificates for his families (both real and acquired through SHIELD) and then mailed them Clint Barton did the same, not because he didn’t see the point in it, but because that was what Phil did and Phil was as close to a functional, normal adult that Clint had in his life.

They managed fine with this arrangement until one year in February when Phil decided to open his Christmas cards over lunch in the commissary. He ate with Clint most days now, not as dates, at least not at first, but as something far better than eating lunch at home. That cold day in February Phil has finally made his way through the backlog of work far enough to get to the Christmas cards and he thought that maybe Clint would enjoy them. Clint did enjoy them.

“Your sister sounds nice,” he said, running his hand along the raised robin on the front of the card. “She sounds like she misses having you around for Christmas.”

“If I went home for Christmas there would be an international incident, just to fuck up the day.” Phil replied evenly, picking up the next card. Clint had hummed, and read the next one in the small pile in front of him.

“Still. I’m sure they would like to have a family Christmas with everyone. And carols. And a tree. You know, figgy pudding. That’s what Christmas is about, isn’t it? Spending time with your family and stuff like that”

It was the stuff like that that put things in perspective for Phil. The rolodex that was his mind brought up the blank space next to Clint’s next of kin and the rather full space of previous addresses filled with foster homes. It brought up the long blank filled with Carson’s Circus. It did not bring up family filled Christmases. He thought about bringing it up, broaching the subject of the memories Clint had of the holiday season, but decided against it and simply filed stuff like that under stuff I would change if I could.

Phil started tackling that list eight weeks later when they kissed in Milan, pretending to be tourists in front of the Duomo. It was a common distraction technique, but when they both leaned into it they both suddenly knew. In some ways there was so little to learn about each other, in other ways so much. Phil started staying over in Clint’s crappy apartment when he was in New York, sharing the bed with Clint and Lucky the dog. Phil loved that apartment. He loved breakfasts on the couch, stealing kisses behind Kate Bishop’s back, waking up from naps to see Clint’s back muscles move as he shot down his makeshift range. He loved working on his list of stuff I would change if I could.

It was May when the email appeared in his inbox. An all-SHIELD message from Maria Hill with the ominous subject line of: Christmas Club. He was on the bus, mid-Atlantic, but he clicked it open and read through it twice. Then he called to make sure her email hadn’t been hacked.

Maria laughed. “You are the fourth person to call me. No, I haven’t been hacked. I just thought it might be something different. We could do something nice for our families instead of just expecting them to do everything for us.”

Stuff. Like. That.

Phil cleared his throat. “Do people need to physically be in New York do the projects?”

It wasn’t easy to find the time to do the projects, or get the materials as he moved around the world, but Phil tried the best he could. The hardest part was keeping it all a secret, from Clint and from the inquisitive people on the plane he called home. He knew he didn’t have to keep it a secret, that he could have told Skye, Jemma and Leo that he was going to do his best to make this place less sad for them for one month. He could have told Clint that he was going to help decorate his place, that he had a plan to show Clint everything that Christmas day could be like. But Phil was a pragmatic, practical man who knew that organizing multiphase, covert missions and not crafting was his speciality so he decided to keep this all under his hat.

The first project was wrapping paper, hand decorated. He made stencils out of potatoes and broke all his red pens for ink. This was July. He started questioning his sanity.

It was August before he managed to be in New York for one of the twice monthly Tuesday night meet ups. He was nervous when he arrived at Agent Lee’s house, a pretty place in New Jersey, on a hot evening. He was less nervous when Pepper Potts opened the door, a beer in her hand and a giant grin on her face.

“Phhhhilllll!” she cried out as she hugged him. He peered over his shoulder, spotted mostly familiar faces, and felt for the first time this might be a good idea. There were three men in the club, himself (there for Clint), Steve Rogers (there for Bucky) and Andy from Strike Team Omega (trying to fill the hole left in the family when his mother had passed away last year). They were immediately outclassed by the seven women in the group, all of whom apparently had a genetic predisposition to crafting. Phil was exceptionally pleased to discover that the effect that ten perfectionist, mission driven people usually had on each other working on projects dissipated with the addition of beer. Halfway through the nights project Phil found himself enjoying the evening, the quick banter of the group and the collective hilarity of working on a Christmas project in August.

“I’m just taking the stuff they decide isn’t good enough,” Andy said, taking a swig of his bottle. This week they were making gold dusted oak leaves and everyone was covered in glitter. 

“They won’t dry before we have to leave, so we are just going to perfect the technique here and then make them at home.” Maria reminded them all, looking doubtfully at Phil and Andy. Steve, Phil noted, was not included in her glance. But then again, Steve’s first leaf looked perfect and Phil’s looked like a something had pissed on it. Andy took another swig. 

They sent him home with material for the next four project, in exchange for the promise that he would try and Skype in more often. He meant to finish the leaves that weekend, get a start on stencilling and the dried oranges. But the next morning the lumpy mattress was too comfortable, Clint too happy to spend a rare morning on his ipad and stay in bed while Phil caught up with emails. It was that night when he realised that the hand dipped oak leaves were going to take up too much room on the bus, create too much of a mess for him to hide. Phil decided he needed to come clean.

“I joined the Christmas Club,” he told Clint, watching carefully for the tellatale signs of worry to appear. Clint snorted.

“I know. Because I’m a super spy.” Clint replied, taking another sip of his coffee straight out of the carafe. Phil pursed his lips.

“Who told you?”

“Tasha. And Maria. And Pepper. And Jennifer, from payroll.” Clint waved the pot in Phil’s general direction and Phil nodded for a refill. “I think it’s nice you’re doing it for the kids on the bus. No one is ever going to suspect you, after not giving a crap about Christmas for the last fuck knows how long.”

The thing is, Phil wanted to tell him right then. He wanted to say this wasn’t about the kids on the bus, not really, but about Clint. He wanted to tell him that, barring an international incident, he was going to ask his mom if she wanted to come down and spend a quiet Christmas with them since his sister was taking the kids to Disneyland. 

Instead, he blurted “I was wondering if you’d mind if I did a few crafting things today, to catch up.” 

“Only if I can mock you while you do it.” Clint has said with a grin.

And it was a great day. Clint helped paint glitter on the gilded oak leaves and didn’t complain when the spray paint got through gaps and left marks all over his counters. He cut up “alternative” stencils while Phil did the regular ones, disappeared to buy purple paper for the paper chains and ate most of the popcorn for the popcorn garlands before insisting that was enough DIY and it was time for a movie. 

“That was kinda nice,” Clint said that night, Phil’s last night before a quinjet picked him up. “Maybe next time you come we could make a few decorations for this place. I can pick up the stuff.”

“I’ll send you the materials list,” Phil said weakly, guiltily. 

“Awesome,” Clint replied.

 

* * *

Clint liked Christmas, at least he thought he did. In his limited experience, Christmas involved food and friends and naps and those were all things he liked. When Maria Hill sent her Christmas Club email around, he had junked it instantly though. Clint junked the invitation without a second thought and decided he’d try to remember to get a tree. He’d just moved into his apartment, a big place that took up most of the top floor of a dump in Brooklyn. Getting furniture for it was enough of a stretch of his homesteading ways, and 90% of that was Kate Bishop. The other 10% though, the comfy cushions, the crockery that matched, the coffee pot with a timer...that was all Phil. Phil, who tried to make his life a little bit better even more they started dating. For Phil, Clint decided, he’d try to remember to adult and get a tree.

This is why Clint wasn’t even remotely surprised when Maria Hill told him Phil was trying to do Christmas Club from his flying office.

“I think it’s sweet.” They were in her office, theoretically working through the logistics of how Clint could be in two places at once for an upcoming mission. “He clearly wants to make the things nice since he knows they won’t get much time on the ground”.

“I think the idea of him doing crafts locked in his office is hilarious. Can we get May to hack the feed into the camera? Can we at least get pictures of the bus decorated?” Clint replied. Maria had frowned then, which in retrospect was a reaction Clint realised he should have asked her about. But they moved on to actual work then and a few days later he saved the world so it sort of slipped his mind.

Phil started spending his down time at the apartment in June and didn’t say anything about Christmas Club to Clint. 

“He probably doesn’t want me to get jealous,” he told Tasha, as they waited patiently for a drug dealer to wake up so they could start questioning him again. Tasha, using a knife to clean some grime off the bottom of her shoe, snorted. “What?” he asked.

“You are a horrible super spy.”

“I am not.”

“Yes, yes you are.” she replied, glancing over at the still prone dealer. “He is doing this for you, you moron.”

Clint felt the bottom fall out of his stomach. “Shit.”

“He’s going to surprise you with Christmas.”

“Shhhhhhhhhiiiitttt” Clint wailed.

“Oh come on, it’s not that bad.”  
“I’m going to fuck it up.” Clint told her, his voice solid and sure. “I’m going to fuck up the first Christmas we have together.” Tasha stared at him, her face blank. “I thought we could, I don’t know, cook using the oven and put up a tree or something. I don’t know how to do Christmas, Tasha. He’s going to be….oh, hey, the asshole is awake!”

It was July when Tasha gave him a USB stick full of holiday films and the biggest cheat of all, Martha Stewart’s Complete Christmas Planner.

“It’s what the Christmas Club is using as a guide. I figure you might relax if you had the intel about what’s happening.” Clint spent an entire weekend researching Christmas, reading the book and watching the films. He went out, the day in July, and bought stuff to make all the crafts in the Christmas guide and then hid it all in his basement storage space. He didn’t really know why but he felt better knowing it was all there, in case he needed it. In case Phil needed it. It was the five P’s that Phil had droned on about for years: Prior preparation prevents piss poor performance. Or, as he and Tasha privately thought: Prior preparation prevents Phil painfully pontificating.

All of this had brought them to five days in August, a whole five days that Clint and Phil got to pretend they had a normal relationship. All of this brought them to the morning Phil had cautiously confessed to the Christmas Club and the moment that Clint felt his was ready for. He wasn’t sure why he didn’t confess to Phil that he had everything they needed to do all the crafts right then and there.

He knew why he said the decorations were for the bus, for the next generation of Phil’s underdog agents. Phil was a nice person, Christmas was a nice event, the decorations were nice things. Most days, Clint didn’t feel like a very nice person at all. But that day, laughing in his kitchen, switching out the shitty spray paint Phil had bought that would never work for the brand Martha recommended, Clint had felt like a good guy. A good friend. He’d liked that day, and so he decided to ask for another. He decided to ask Phil for the list of things he needed to make Christmas perfect.

It was the end of September when Bucky Barnes showed up at his door and begged to stay for the weekend.

“I’m worried if I sit still long enough, he is going to stencil something onto my arm,” Bucky had said, standing in the doorway with a pizza and some DVD’s. “It’s October and our apartment already looks like Christmas.”

“Come on in,” Clint said, understanding perfectly. Because, now that Phil had told him about the Christmas Club, Clint practically felt like he was part of it. Now when they talked they always talked a bit about Christmas every time and Clint was left worrying that he would mess things up. He absentmindedly scratched at some of the gold paint on his counter and Bucky snorted knowingly.

“I don’t want to talk about anything to do with things that should only be done in December.” Bucky told him as they sat down.  
“Fine with me,” Clint replied. “What films did you bring?”

“Die Hard I & II”

Clint laughed his way through the credits, laughed so hard he had tears streaming down his face as Bucky swore at the TV and angerly drank beer. He laughed even harder during the credits for the second one.

A few weeks later Bucky had been back at his door, this time at 10 am on a Saturday morning. 

“Steve wants me to go shopping and I need backup.” Clint has still been in his sweatpants, still hadn’t had his coffee, but Bucky promised to buy him a bagel and coffee and Clint thought that maybe this year would be the year to not get gift cards for people. They went out and it was….ok. He helped Bucky find the shops he wanted and picked up a few gifts as well. The shops were pretty empty because it was October and he was home pretty early. Except now he had Christmas presents in October and three super observant people in and out of his apartment. He may his way down to his basement storage space and dumped the gifts there. And while he was at it, he made a few changes to make the next few months less stressful the way Phil had taught him.

* * *

Phil didn’t start to panic about Christmas Day until mid-November.

He didn’t start to panic until it was he was making candles in Clint’s kitchen and his mother called to confirm the plans.

“It’s just that the trains are filling up, Phil, and I want to make sure I can get a seat. Amy and the girls are here on Christmas Eve but I’ll catch the 9 am down to New York. It’ll be so nice to meet your boyfriend and have an adult Christmas for a change!” she said brightly down the line.

Phil hadn’t mentioned his mother to Clint. In fact, casting his mind back, Phil wasn’t sure he’d mentioned the Clint that he would be at his apartment. Pepper, fully into Christmas planning mode as well, had sent through Clint’s digital diary of activities for Christmas day and Phil had emailed back with the amendments to ensure that they had dinner with his mother at the apartment. But, actually, Phil wasn’t entirely sure the Clint had been CC’d into that email. He looked up to see the man in question dipping wicks into hot wax, happily forming the ends of half of the candles to look like arrows.

There was an awful lot at this point that Phil hadn’t mentioned to Clint.

“That sounds great, mom. Let me know what time your train gets you in. Clint’s only has the one bedroom, so I’ve booked you a room at the Plaza, but we are going to have dinner here and then go see a few co-workers for drinks Christmas night.” Clint stopped dipping candles and his head rotated around until he locked eyes with Phil. Phil was aware that his mother was talking, sure, but Clint’s head tilted sideways a bit and his eyes unfocused a little and Phil was pretty sure they were both having internal panic attacks. “I’ll call you back, ma.”

The apartment was silent, save for Lucky licking his balls on the couch.

“So,” Clint began, mechanically dipping the candles. “I guess we had better do a good Christmas dinner.”

“I was going to tell you…”Phil’s voice dropped off.

“When?” Clint replied, fixing his eyes on him. “When were you going to tell me?”

“When I figured how, ok?” Phil shot back, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “When I figured out if it would be good enough.”

Clint sighed and leaned against the counter, resting his chin in one hand. The other hand scratched off a bit of gold paint.

“There is something you should see,” he said finally, and walked out the apartment door. Phil followed him down the basement, watched him fumble with the combination and open the door to reveal crafting supplies, wrapping paper, a few bags shopping bags and a desk. There was a calender on the wall, with the days till Christmas marked on it, covered in writing. Martha Stewart was the only book on the desk. Phil was speechless. This was akin to mission control. He read the calender and felt his heart skip. Covertly remind Phil to order a christmas turkey if he wants one. Last day to start a Christmas cake if Phil wants one. Reminder: buy gift tags. Indian market on the 9000 block of L has whole nutmeg.

“Maybe,” Clint said after a moment. “Maybe this would be easier if we teamed up for it. If we just put our cards on the table.” He reached over and flipped a switch on the desk. A string of tree lights sprung to life and Phil smiled as he reached over to pull Clint into a sideways hug.

“That sounds like the start of a plan.”

They moved everything upstairs that afternoon, set it up the wall calender over the kitchen table and put the craft stuff in a more easily accessible cupboard. Everything except the bags that Clint had shyly told him had to stay in the basement behind the door with the code Phil didn’t know. Some things could stay a secret. It was the last night Phil was going to be there until Christmas Eve and so over a bottle of wine they decided the best move was the classic divide and conquer. Phil would be in charge of the turkey, the stuffing and the veg. Clint would do the Christmas pudding (since he already had one on the go….just in case), the potatoes and the cranberry sauce. 

“Not the stuff in a jar,” Phil said firmly. “That doesn’t taste like the real stuff. For our first Christmas I want you to taste real cranberry sauce”.

“Sure,” Clint said. “Sure.”

The next morning Phil had kissed him goodbye on the roof to the sound of his junior agents making kissy kissy noises and Clint had given them the finger.

“I’ll see you on the 24th,” Phil had told him. “I’ll try to get away as early as I can.”

On December 24th, Phil let himself into Clint’s apartment to find a dead Christmas tree and a note. Saving the world with Tasha. Lucky is with the neighbour. I’ll be home by midnight.

Phil put the turkey crown and veg in the fridge, dumped the eggnog and made a note to buy more, collected Lucky and sat down on the couch, absentmindedly rubbing the top of the dog’s head.

“What are the chances, Lucky? What are the chances.” The dog said nothing, which is Phil’s line of business made him oddly happy. He would, he decided, give Clint until 9 pm before he started to worry. In the meantime, he grabbed the leash and headed out into the Christmas Eve bustle to buy a tree. He only had to walk a few blocks before he found a guy selling the last of his trees. They weren’t perfect, a little small, but Phil figured he could put the tree on a box and it would look impressive enough. It was small enough for him to carry home and stop to buy the eggnog, leaving a whining Lucky to guard the tree. He got back to Clint’s at about 7, put up the new tree and took out all the handmade stuff. He didn’t put it up, he hoped Clint would be back to help with that, but he got it all ready. 

He heard the door at 10:45.

“Honey, I’m back!” Tasha’s laughter followed Clint in, shopping bags in both their hands. Lucky bounded over to them and Phil was only half a step behind. They ordered chinese food and the three of the decorated, former Strike Team Delta putting popcorn garlands on a tree and candles in wooden stumps on the mantel of a blocked fireplace. By midnight the place was ready, the tree decorated, the table set for dinner the next and the food all in the fridge. Tasha had left with the gifts to put under the main tree at the Avengers Tower and Phil and Clint collapsed into bed.

“I hope you’ve got time to make the cranberry sauce in the morning,” Phil said absentmindedly and he scootched a bit closer to Clint.

“Shouldn’t be a problem,” Clint replied and Phil drifted off.

* * *

At 12:45, Clint was lying in bed trying to figure out where he could get fresh cranberries. Or even frozen ones. At 1:30 he slipped out of bed, grabbed a bottle of scotch, and headed out into the streets searching the open bodegas. 

At 3:45 he found a can of cranberry sauce, an hour walk away from his apartment. He stared at it through glazed eyes and wondered if he was hallucinating at this point. He figured he must be, because the next thing he heard was the jangle of the door opening and the familiar voice of Bucky Barnes. Clint took another sip of the bottle in his pocket as Bucky rounded the corner, a crazed look in his eyes.

“Barton.”

“Barnes,” Clint replied. He looked back at the cranberry sauce. “Do you think if I put some raisins in food dye now and then put them into this crap Phil would believe that I made the sauce from scratch?”

Bucky’s eye twitched and he reached over to put a hand on Clint’s shoulder. “I’ll pray for you.”

“What are you here for anyhow?” Clint asked, tightening his grip on the can. Hand to hand, he didn’t think he was a match for Barnes. But if the Winter Soldier was looking for cranberry sauce he would have to pry it from Clint’s cold, dead hands.

“Egg nog,” Bucky said weakly and Clint relaxed, nodded.

“If you want brownie points, head down to the Indian market on the 9000 block of L. They have whole nutmeg. And here,” Clint handed him a brown paper bag with ¾ of the scotch still in it. “I think you need this more than I do.” 

Clint payed for the can of cranberry sauce and started the slow walk home. He could have paid for a taxi, but somehow this felt like a needed penatence for wrecking the Christmas meal. He pictured Phil’s face, blank, as he presented the tin of cranberry sauce. He pictured Phil’s mom face, disgusted, even though he had never met the lady before in his life. His life would be forever divided into pre and post cranberry.

He walked quietly up the steps to his apartment, hid the cranberry sauce between Lucky’s dog bed and the wall, and at 5 am crawled back into bed.

They had leftover Chinese food for Christmas morning breakfast, Phil bustling away with pre-cooking roast vegetables and Clint bustling away with finding excuses not to make the cranberry sauce, up to and including cutting every potato to roast into a star shape. At 11:30, Phil dropped him off at the Tower to go with the rest of the team to serve food at the Food Bank and Phil went off to get his mom. Clint didn’t have much time to think about the cranberry sauce situation for the next few hours, just tried to make sure the mashed potatoes got onto peoples plates and that they left his food station with a smile on their faces. But by 4:00 when he found his line empty and saw a mildly terrified Phil and a smiling woman, presumably Ma Coulson, talking to Tony Stark at bacon wrapped sausage station everything snapped into perspective.

He looked out onto the sea of people in front of him, thankful for a hot meal, everything snapped into perspective. There was a ghost of Christmas past, for sure, but in the foreground was the ghost of his Christmas present. Phil, Ma Coulson & The Avengers. Phil, who walking over to him, looking slightly concerned.

“I bumped into Bucky Barnes at the Plaza hotel. He was checking in with a turkey. I talked it over with my mom, and we think they might need some help at the tower tonight. I know we have food at home, but we could cook it tomorrow for Boxing Day. Would you mind if we….” his voice trailed off.

“Nah,” said Clint. “That would be perfect.”

In the end, they laughed with their friends until nearly 11pm. Bucky told the story of the turkey, Clint told the story of the cranberry sauce and Pepper quietly admitted to the incident with the decorations. Ma (call me Angela, Clint) Coulson was everything Clint had wanted her to be, every each the woman who would have raised a son like Phil. They called her a cab and she had kissed them both on the cheek, told them to come for breakfast at her hotel the next day by 10 am.

In the end, it was the Christmas they had always wanted.


End file.
